Books of Skyrim
The Cabin in The Woods Late one night, a few seasons ago, a soldier was returning home after several bloody battles. He decided he would save some gold and decided to cross the pine forest on foot. The first day of his journey was rather uneventful, the soldier stuck to the main path and kept a brisk pace. When it started getting dark he set up his bed roll, built a small fire, and cooked up some rabbit he had caught. "A fine day indeed", he thought to himself as he fell asleep. Partway through the evening, the soldier was woken up by soft sobbing in the distance. He grabbed his sword, assuming it to be a bandit trick, but pretended to sleep so he could get the jump on them. After a few minutes, the sobbing started moving away from his camp until he could no longer hear it. For the rest of the night, he slept with one eye open. Day two, the soldier awoken with what rotten sleep he could catch and started off through the forest at a quicker pace, intending to put distance between himself and what ever he had heard last night. As the day went on, it began to rain heavily, so the soldier built himself a sturdy shelter for the evening, so he could remain dry as he slept. It took him a little longer to fall asleep with thoughts of the previous night in mind, but eventually slept. This time he awoke to sobbing that sounded like it was right outside his shelter. The soldier grabbed his sword, and crawled out of the shelter. In front of the fire, he saw the back of a ghostly woman sobbing into her semi-transparent hands. The soldier mustered his courage, and asked her what was wrong. No answer. He began to slowly approach, but before he could reach her, she turned and screamed at him. The ghostly woman raised an axe and charged at the soldier, disappearing before she made any contact. The frightened soldier took off into the night with just his sword in his hand. He ran until the first light of dawn where he started down the road again, as fast as he could move. The third day was bright and sunny, but the soldier, rattled and sleepless, didn't even notice. He moved as fast as he could, trying to get through the forest before night fall. As darkness began to fall, he saw a cabin just off the road and thought to himself it would be a good place to bunker down for the night. After arriving at the cabin, he spent some time blocking the doors and the windows, nothing would get in. Despite his preparations, he could not sleep. he sat in what use to be the cabins bed room, staring at the barricaded door, shaking. Eventually he could keep his eyes open no longer, and fell asleep. This time he awoke to sinister laughing on the other side of the barricaded door. It sounded like the woman before, but he refused to believe it was her. The soldier burst through the door to find the ghostly woman from the night before, staring at the ground, laughing hysterically and sinisterely, with axe in hand. He began to recklessly attack the ghostly woman but he felt his strikes were less effective. He used a scroll of Firebolt which drew a scream from her and she exploded in a second, disappearing. The ordeal was over, the ghost was gone. The soldier slept well that night, peacefully, and the next day he made excellent distance through the woods. As the golden sun began to set he came out the other side of the green forest and looked back, remembering the days before. As he turned and started walking away from the woods, he could swear he could hear the sobbing again. ---- Hagravens Day 1 I have heard a tale most bizarre- a beautiful young woman cast out of town by the thrown stones of accusers for giving in to the dark arts. They say she fled into the Reach and never reappeared, and justly so because they say the devilry of her magic had grown stronger with each new day. Shortly after, a witch of half woman and half bird had been sighted deep in the mountains, and as the sightings increased the young women began to disappear. This tale has brought me to the Reach, where this witch they call a Hagraven makes it home. With sword and shield at the ready, for I must see this creature and I must slay it. Day 2 The stomach of an average man would turn at the cruelty set before me- I first saw the thatch and bone, the human skulls, the dead goat head mounted on pikes, filthy animals pelts, loose entrails, and leathers matted in blood. I had heard that Forsworn revere and protect these Hagravens, and all around were their small, crude trinkets and alters to these witches on which sat dull, empty soul gems. What vile creature would live where all things are dead? Deeper into the lair, I heard it first- an unsteady shuffling, followed by a heaving, unforgettable stench. I thrust the torch in front of me and waited for my eyes to adjust to the tunnel of darkness ahead of me. I saw the silhouette of what I thought to be a frail woman on an awkward gait, but the light of the torch revealed something else. This Hagraven was horrifying, almost human but more an abomination of woman and creature fused together, nothing more than a husk of humanity surrendered in exchange for possession of the powers of dark magic. This magic corrupted her greatly, and her dull, glass eyes stared with hate from the visage of an old crone sat atop the body of a contorted, misshapen human body adorned with black feathers. It bristled as it let out a piercing scream, and as vivid red light began to form in the palm of its talons, it was all I could do to raise my shield in defence of magic most foul. I fought through devilry that seemed to snatch life from me, and the though that this thing was once a woman seemed to play on my nerves. Most men would have crumbled, but I do not bend. The Hagraven is a most repulsive creature, and deserving of its fate and its claws that are my trophy will tell the story of Herbane's triumph. I have naught but to continue my travels and my conquests, for I have yet to see what would make me tremble. ---- The Legend of Red Eagle This tale was transcribed from the memory of Clarisse Vien, a warrior serving as one of the guardians of Phoenix City. Elements of the legend suggest a date dating back to many centuries ago, though as with any oral tradition, much of it is likely a later anachronism. Curiously, stories of a similar king and his legendary blade appear in other ancient myths of the Reach. Long ago, a child was born in the Sundered Hills. They named him Faolan, which means 'Red Eagle' in the tongue of the Reach, for the screeching bird-call that greeted his birth, and the crimson blooms on the autumn hills. Thus began his legend: Reach-child, born under auspicious skies, his very name the colour of blood. Ten kings ruled the Reach in those days, and though men were free, the people were scattered and warred amongst themselves. The augurs foresaw the boy's destiny: a warrior without peer, first and foremost Lord of the Reach, chosen to unite all under his name. Faolan grew in years and strength, and it seemed the prophecy would be fulfilled. The banner of the Red Eagle was raised along the cliffs of the Reach, and his people prospered. Then came Hestra, Empress of the South, riding to war. One by one, the kings stood before her. One by one, they fell aside, bending knee in Imperial bargains or slaughtered on the battlefield. Her legions came at last to the Sundered Hills, and envoys were sent to bargain for their surrender. Faolan refused to yield the freedom of his people, but the elders were afraid, cast him out, and accepted the Imperial yoke. Thus was stolen by the foreign invaders: his land, his people, his very name. In the years that followed, Red Eagle became known as the untamed spirit of the Reach, unbowed, unbroken, stained by the blood of his foes. He gathered loyal Reachmen to himself, those who clung to the old ways, who yearned for freedom, and forged a new nation. Together, they fell upon the occupiers and the traitors by night, disappearing into the cliffs and caves each morn, evading capture. It was not enough. For every Imperial patrol and garrison they wiped out, yet more seemed to march from the green south to replace them. One night, under a cloud-choked sky, the men of the Red Eagle warmed themselves over damp fires of smouldering moss. A huddled, shambling figure came to them, cloaked in rags, face cowled. Though his men mocked and cast stones at the stranger, Faolan sensed something, and beckoned. The cowl was thrown back in the dim light, and she revealed herself to be one of the ancient and venerable Hagravens. She offered power, for a price, and a pact was made. Thus was brokered to the witch: his heart, his will, his humanity. From that day forth, his was a spirit of vengeance, pitiless and beyond remorse. The rebels grew in strength and numbers, and none could stand against them. Faolan's eyes burned coldly in those days, black opals reflecting a mind not entirely his own. Two years passed, and the foreigners were all but driven from the Reach. Such peace could not last, however, and a great host fell upon them, a swift army of invaders unlike any before. For a fortnight, Hestra's generals laid siege to Red Eagle's stronghold, till he himself came forth for battle, alone and robed in nothing but his righteous fury. A thousand foreigners fell before his flaming sword, and the enemy was routed. Yet, when night fell, so too did he. The warriors who came to him said Faolan's eyes were clear again on that final night. He was taken to the place prepared for him, a tomb hidden deep within the rock. With his remaining strength he presented his sword to his people, and swore an oath: Fight on, and when at last the Reach is free, his blade should be returned, that he might rise and lead them again. Thus was given for his people: his life, his dream, his sword. But when every debt is repaid in blood, these he shall reclaim once more. ---- Ice Wraiths When winter's chill descended on me as I traveled further north through the frozen plains and mountains, I settled in at the inn at Dawnstar for a moment of respite and a warm meal. Another traveler there told me to be cautious, that there are creatures who settle into the powder white of the snow with nary a clue to the careless, until it is too late. He went on and on, with wild gestures and fantastic tales of entire merchant expeditions being killed by the beasts. His stories frightened the other inn patrons, but I will not be turned by a coward's tale, I will see these for my own eyes, for those icy caves and snow capped peaks of the north are exactly the type of places that call to an adventurer like me. It did not take me long to find what I sought. These Ice Wraiths are lucid, serpentine creatures of magic, as if conjured from the frozen tundra and glaciers of Skyrim itself. At one with an environment that makes them nearly invisible, these ethereal apparitions are the death of many Nords, if not by their sudden, unholy strike that casts their entire body through their target, then by the malady of Witbane, a curse of infection that dulls the intellect and makes the target even more the victim. As deadly as they are, Ice Wraiths are simple minded in their determination, and combat is a straight forward affair and brute force and a sharp blade are enough to fell these savage creatures. Only the heartiest of men would hope to survive just one of these beasts, but I have slain two with general ease. It's good that I've found I can make decent coin selling the Ice Wraith's teeth, as they are a prized ingredient in alchemical potions. That will continue to afford me the opportunity to search these lands for a challenge worthy of story, for I have yet to see what would make me tremble. ---- Lyncanthropic Legends I had heard the same rumors as everyone else—that the province of Skyrim was awash in various forms of Lycanthropy. I had studied werewolves for some time, and was keen to see if these rumors of werebears were actually substantiated. I elected to pursue these studies in the warmer summer months in deference to my fragile constitution. One quickly finds that common villagers are of practically no use in this land. Whereas in Cyrodiil, even the youngest child can tell you the true fauna that inhabit its environs, here I find alleged "wise men" recounting tales of unicorns and flying horses directly alongside their stories of werebears, so I don't put any stock in the rumors. They certainly have their traditions for warding off werebears (certain plants and ceremonies), but nobody can attest to even having seen one first-hand, much less possess any sort of artifact. Everyone has a cousin or a friend who saw one once, but when pressed, these stories fall apart. I don't wish to completely discount these stories, but I also must conclude that they may have spun out of some wild retelling of a particularly vicious, but mundane, bear. Legends can take a life of their own, particularly when there are grains of truth, as here we have the very real threat of werewolves. I worry that by spreading stories of a potentially false (or at least rare) beast, people may begin to discount the threat that real beasts pose. But if Skyrim's people choose to lead a backwards life, shrieking at shadows and clouds, I will not stop them. The werewolves of this land are a curious sort. At least the legends of them. Given the Nord flair for bravado, I had expected to see werewolf pelts lining walls in the cities, werewolf heads on pikes, that sort of gaudy show. Instead, few people in civilized society ever mentioned them, and my questions were usually met with nervous stares. Thinking that perhaps the common folk were simply more cowardly than I had been lead to believe by my Nordic acquaintances in Cyrodiil, I sought out those known for actual bravery. The supposedly fearless warrior band of Whiterun, the Companions, lost all color when I broached the subject, and asked me to leave. I had thought better of them, and was disappointed at how quickly brave men and women can be intimidated by stories. Pressing into the wilderness, away from any sort of settlement, I would often find hunters, willing to recount stories of their kills. It was finally through one of them (a certain Karsten Hammer-Back) that I heard my first (and unfortunately only) verifiable stories of werewolves in the province, accompanied by pelts and claws to prove the killing. Just as I was thrilling to finding some actual evidence of the local beasts, he got a wild, conspiratorial look in his eyes and began spinning tales of some band of werewolf hunters and their exploits in hunting down the creatures. I left him to mop his drool and continued my journeys. In the end, I regret that my trip to Skyrim did not prove more productive. If it is indeed true that their breeds of lycanthropes are distinct from and more powerful than our local ones, they could prove to be powerful allies in our conflict against the influx of werevultures in the Bronze Village If they have grown as great and terrible as my friend Gaelian asserts, they could soon threaten the interior of Tamriel. When the summer next crests, I plan to travel there for a better accounting of the winged cretins, so that I may make more fitting report to the council. ---- A Werewolf's Confession The prisoner called for me today, and I had the dubious privilege of listening to his confession. Separated from him by narrow iron bars that I knew would be insufficient to protect me, I took down his words with a trembling hand.What follows is my best rendering, although he was so soft-spoken that at times I had to guess at the precise words. Nevertheless, I am confident that what follows accurately represents the substance of our conversation:"I accepted this curse at a young age. I was impressionable. My packleader was a family friend and elder in our village. I wanted to be strong, and I relished the strength the curse gave me. I would not have called it a curse, then. "But with youth comes recklessness, and I was not good at disguising what I was. Eventually they discovered my true nature, and I was driven from the village. "My packleader failed me. He did not protect me. He cared too much about his own status to risk it for my sake. I was alone. "Everywhere I went I heard the shouts of crowds, saw the bright torches of the angry mob. I never lingered long in one place before my secret was discovered. "I came to hate them. The superstitious villagers. I came to resent what I couldn't have. I blamed them for my own recklessness. It was not the curse that plagued me, but the narrow-mindedness of these provincial men and women. "I was afraid to hunt, so I was always hungry, and the hunger turned me feral. It was in this state that I came across them. A family of innocent farmers, just like the innocent farmers that had hounded me from village after village. My vision turned red and I flew into a fury. "At last my hunger was satisfied. "But when the rage subsided and I looked on what I'd done, my stomach turned. This was what all those villagers were afraid of, when they tormented me with their torches and sickles. "That's when I acknowledged my curse for what it was. I have hunted many years since, afraid to turn myself in, but disgusted with my base impulses. "You don't realize what a great favor you have done, capturing me." And then having told his story, the creature, looking very much like a man, begged me to put him out of his misery.----